Two more were disposed of by Wilkins in quick succession. He took the first one out through his tried and tested method of a sudden stab to the temple, then rammed its decaying face hard against the side of the nearest hut. He turned to take out the next one, but was immediately filled with uncomfortable, conflicting emotions because this figure had clearly once been a young woman. For a split second he felt overwhelming guilt, then remorse, then desperate fear when he realised this poor wretch couldn’t have been very different in age when she’d died to his love, Jocelyn.
No room for emotions now. Everything depended on what happened here tonight. The pressure was immense. Almost unbearable.
It was impossible to be sure how many of the unspeakable fiends were converging on them now. Between them, Harris and Steele dispatched several more, the efficiency of their kills increasing with each one. Contrary to how the papers and the movies often portrayed it, there was nothing easy or glamorous about killing anyone in battle. In films you didn’t have to deal with the blood or the stench or the cries for help or mercy. Films made killing look easy, effortless. Steele had just about become used to the guilt-tinged adrenalin rush he felt whenever he faced the Hun, but this was a different matter altogether. And as he struggled to deal with an emaciated prisoner’s remains which fought with the tenacity of a trained SS Obersturmführer, he knew this was an even more terrifying enemy they were now having to face.
All of the doubts and misgivings these British soldiers might have had, the unspoken suspicions that Wilkins was wrong or that he’d exaggerated the situation in Europe, were all undone in the space of several frantic minutes.
A gap in the oncoming crowd. They must have faced twenty or thirty between them now, though numbers were unclear in the dark. Wilkins dashed across to Harris and Jones to help put down two more frenzied attackers. ‘We need to get under cover,’ he gasped breathlessly. ‘Otherwise we’ll be fighting like this all night. That’s if we last that long. We’ve no idea how many of them there are.’
‘The huts,’ Steele shouted over the chaos, gesticulating wildly once he’d twisted the neck of a dead SS guard and put a blade through his eye.
‘But we don’t know what’s in there, Sarge,’ Jones said.
‘No, but we do know what’s out here,’ Wilkins immediately replied.
He ran towards the nearest of the shabby wooden buildings, shoulder charging more of the dead out of the way now rather than wasting time and effort trying to deal with them more comprehensively. The others followed as best they could, kicking and lashing out at the hellish creatures which swarmed around them in huge numbers, apparently without end.
Wilkins yanked at the door. The handle was stiff but, to his surprise, opened relatively easily. Jones piled inside after him, followed by Steele. ‘Where’s Barton?’ asked the sergeant, realising he was the last one who’d made it to cover, immediately concerned for the men. ‘And Harris and the lieutenant? Where the hell are they?’
He had a Sten gun slung across his back. He swung it around and held it ready.
‘Think about the bloody noise, man,’ Wilkins said, doing his best to dissuade him from firing. He knew his words would inevitably have little effect.
‘Bit late for that now, Lieutenant,’ Steele said, and he kicked the door open again and charged back outside. Wilkins tried to stop him, but he was already running headlong into the still advancing crowd, firing wildly and filling the air with noise. It was clear that he was trying to create a distraction so that his colleagues would stand a chance of surviving. And it seemed to be working too, because those members of the army of the dead that Wilkins could see – prisoners and Nazis alike – were staggering further away from the hut now and following Steele into the impenetrable darkness elsewhere.
‘Help me!’
The remaining Brits heard Harris’ distinctive voice calling. Jones illuminated him with his torch and saw he was standing over the injured Lieutenant Henshaw, doing everything he could to keep great swathes of venomous corpses at bay. He was swinging a shovel he’d happened upon from somewhere. The head of the spade made contact with the skull of one of the dead, filling the air with a sonorous clang and sending the pitiful creature spiralling away.
Wilkins punched his blade hard into the face of one of the undead. He moved forward, but was then forced to rock back on his toes to avoid being caught with the edge of the scything shovel blade. ‘Steady on, Harris,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s me, Wilkins.’
No time for pleasantries. ‘Help the lieutenant,’ Harris yelled. ‘Get him under cover. He’s hurt.’
Barton appeared from nowhere and helped Wilkins pick the fallen officer up off the ground. The two of them half-carried, half-dragged him back to the hut. Harris followed, still wildly swinging the shovel as he backed towards the others, cutting down more relentless bodies with every vicious swipe. The moment they were all inside Barton snatched the shovel from him and used it to wedge the door shut.
‘That should hold the buggers back for a while,’ he said. He could see shapeless figures crowding on the other side of the windows. He couldn’t make out any level of detail, but just knowing they were there was terrifying enough.
‘What about the sarge?’ Jones asked. He could still hear the Sten gun being fired repeatedly in the distance.
‘Sergeant Steele will find his way back here soon enough,’ Barton said. ‘I hope,’ he added under his breath.
The group’s full attention shifted to the wounded officer writhing in pain at their feet. Wilkins crouched down next to him, checking his wounds. Henshaw’s right arm was badly broken, that much was clear, and in the little he could see from the limited light of Jones’ torch, his skin had already developed an unhealthy pallor.
‘What do we do?’ Jones asked. He sounded panicked, like a child.
‘The first thing we do, Lance Corporal, is shut up,’ Wilkins told him in no uncertain terms. ‘Now get some more light down here, and someone find something I can use as a splint.’
Barton happened across a length of wooden baton. He propped it against the wall and snapped it in half with three hard stomps of his boot. Harris found two Feuerhand Hurricane lamps which he managed to get lit reasonably quickly, filling the hut with light.
‘Where’s the blood coming from?’ asked Harris, and he moved closer with one of the lanterns. Blood was pooling behind the officer’s back, spilling out across the wooden floor like a slick.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Wilkins, and he carefully rolled Henshaw towards him to look at his back. Henshaw’s smock and other clothing had been torn: slashed during the frenzied attack. With his heart in his mouth and fearing the worst, Wilkins lifted away several layers of blood-soaked material until Henshaw’s bare skin was exposed. He looked like he’d been clawed by a bear.
‘And here, sir,’ Jones said, gingerly rolling up his commanding officer’s crimson stained trouser leg. ‘Look.’
In the glare of the kerosene lamp, Wilkins saw an unmistakable semi-circular mark. He’d been bitten. He stepped back from the fallen officer with a heavy heart. ‘He’s not going to make it,’ he said.
‘It’s just a broken bone and a few scratches,’ Jones protested. ‘He’ll be all right. We’ll leave him here and—’
‘You don’t understand, Jones, he’s infected. It’s too much of a risk to leave him here like this. We have to deal with him in the same way we deal with those hideous things out there.’
‘He’s not dead.’
‘He’s as good as.’
Wilkins held his clasp knife ready, but Harris blocked the way. ‘Lay one finger on Lieutenant Henshaw and you’ll have me to answer to.’